Our Brother's Keeper
by jayel7
Summary: A violent encounter with Red Guards leaves D'Artagnan with a head injury. Very D'Artagnan focused. A small amount of coarse language. Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.


Our Brother's Keeper

"You've been spending quite a bit of time with Porthos," Aramis commented. He and D'Artagnan were on their way back to the musketeer garrison after having shared an evening meal together. Athos and Porthos were on assignment at the palace for the king and queen's reception for high ranking guests.

"Porthos said that I needed to learn more about hand-to-hand fighting. He's been giving me some lessons."

"So how are the lessons coming?"

D'Artagnan frowned. "It's tough and don't ask me how sore I am."

"Not surprising. Porthos is bigger, stronger and a lot heavier." Aramis laughed. "Not that every man in the company isn't heavier than you."

D'Artagnan gave a small sigh. "Porthos, Aramis and Athos never seemed to tire of teasing him about his lack of bulk. "I know I'm skinny. You don't have to keep reminding me."

Aramis smiled. "But it's fun to keep reminding you." He added, "Despite your disadvantage in size, are you managing to keep up with him?"

"Porthos says I'm learning." D'Artagnan grinned. "Not learning fast enough to keep him from kicking my tail, though."

The attention of the two musketeers was diverted by a group of noisy Red Guards emerging from a tavern right in front of them. "Look! It's some of the musketeer scum," one of them exclaimed in a drunken slur.

"It's Aramis," another man said, staggering out the door. "And the new one, D'Artagnan, the little musketeer cub."

"You're looking for trouble," Aramis said, "But I trust you're not so drunk that you've decided to ignore the law against dueling."

The Red Guard, who had first spoken, looked at his companions. "He's right, you know, but there's no law against fists!" He hit Aramis in the jaw and received a return punch to the gut. Another Red Guard went for D'Artagnan, as the fight spilled into a nearby alley. Aramis and D'Artagnan were holding their own against their drunken adversaries, until more Red Guards spilled out of the tavern and joined in the scuffle. From that point, the two musketeers began getting the worst of it until Athos and Porthos, returning from the palace, happened upon the scene. Both men drew their swords and the Red Guards began to disperse.

Five of the Red Guards had fought their way into the alley with D'Artagnan. Despite the help that had arrived, they were determined to get in a few parting shots against the newest musketeer. The bulkiest of them seized him and viciously battered the back of his head against the stone wall of the alley until the boy began to lose consciousness and slide down the wall to the ground. "He's had enough," one of the men said to the man who had seized D'Artagnan. "Let's get out of here!" They fled out of the other end of the alley.

"Are you all right," Porthos asked Aramis, who was rubbing his jaw.

"No major harm done," Aramis answered, picking up his hat from the ground and knocking the dust off of it, before placing it back on his head. "Porthos, you would've been proud of D'Artagnan," Aramis said. "From what I could tell, he was putting to good use what he learned from you until more of the Red Guards joined in the fight."

Athos looked around. "Where is D'Artagnan?"

"He must be in the alley," Aramis answered.

The three men hurried into the alley and found D'Artagnan lying unconscious on the ground next to the wall. Athos sat him up and held him by the shoulders. "D'Artagnan! Open your eyes," he commanded.

Slowly, the boy's eyes opened, but he seemed dazed.

"Are you hurt," Athos asked.

D'Artagnan put his hand to the back of his head. "My head." He grimaced. "It hurts."

Aramis went down on one knee and examined the back of the boy's head. He saw blood in his hair and felt a lump already forming. "He must have hit his head against the wall."

"D'Artagnan studied the three men, his bafflement apparent. "Who are you?"

Porthos gave him a quizzical look. "You tryin' to be funny, D'Artagnan?"

D'Artagnan looked confused. "Why did you call me that?"

Porthos replied, "D'Artagnan? Because that's your name. Don't you remember your own name?"

"My name is … My name is …." He stopped. "I don't remember what my name is."

Aramis glanced up at the other two musketeers, then back at the boy. "Your name _is_ D'Artagnan. "I'm Aramis." He indicated the other two men. "This is Athos and this is Porthos."

D'Artagnan looked at the three of them. "I don't know you. None of you."

"You know all of us," Athos said.

"No. No. I don't," D'Artagnan insisted.

Athos got D'Artagnan to his feet and kept a grip on his arm. "You're confused and you don't know what you're saying. We'll get help for you. You need to come with us."

D'Artagnan resisted, trying unsuccessfully to jerk away from Athos's firm grip. "I told you I don't know who you are and I don't want to go anywhere with you. Why should I?"

Aramis began a patient explanation, "Because-"

Athos cut in. "Because I say so."

Aramis gave him a smirk. "Now that's a convincing argument."

The combination of Athos's authoritarian manner and uncompromising hold on D'Artagnan's arm showed him that the musketeer was not going to be deterred. The boy's resistance abruptly collapsed. Athos led him out of the alley and cocked an eyebrow at Aramis. "It worked, didn't it?"

"You win," Aramis conceded. "We need to get him back to the garrison and have the doctor take a look at him." The four of them began the short walk back to the garrison, having to stop once along the way for D'Artagnan to throw up.

At the garrison infirmary, the doctor sat D'Artagnan in a chair to examine him, while the other three stood by watching. After cleaning up the blood matted in his hair, the doctor felt the bump on the back of D'Artagnan's head and looked into his eyes, studying the pupils and checking him for double vision. Following that, he asked D'Artagnan a few questions to determine his awareness and for which the boy could give no satisfactory answers. "He definitely has a concussion," the doctor advised. "That's what's causing his loss of memory."

"How long before he gets his memory back," Athos asked.

The doctor hesitated before answering. "Impossible to say really. I've only treated a couple of cases of memory loss like his. One of the cases recovered his full memory in a relatively short while. The other case never recovered much of his memory. There's no way to predict what the outcome will be for D'Artagnan. He's young and healthy, which is in his favor. Quite possibly, he will make a full recovery in time, but there is a chance that he may never get his memory back at all."

"I won't accept that possibility," Athos said. "He has to get better."

"I want to keep him here in the infirmary overnight," the doctor said. "He can't be allowed to sleep for very long without being awakened. Otherwise, he could slip into such a state of unconsciousness that he doesn't wake up at all. I'll release him from the infirmary tomorrow if he's showing no problem in remaining conscious. There'll be no point in keeping him here."

"We can stay with him and keep him awake," Porthos volunteered.

"What about afterwards," Athos asked. "Is there any way we can help him to get his memory back?"

"What I would suggest is that you talk to him and ask him questions. Try to get him to remember people, places, events, but don't push him too hard. As best you can, keep him from getting upset. It won't be easy because it's going to be frustrating and upsetting for him that he can't remember, but make an effort to keep him calm. That's important for his state of mind." He looked over at D'Artagnan, who sat quietly. "Even though he doesn't remember who you are, he's going to be fully dependent on you. Until his mind is functioning normally again, he's going to require close supervision. You will probably have to tell him when to eat and when to sleep. You can't let him go out of the compound by himself. He's not responsible and there's no telling what could happen to him. He's also going to have headaches, some of them probably severe. There's no pain medication that's safe, in my opinion, for head injuries. I'm afraid there's no choice for him, but to tough it out. Over time, the headaches will lessen, but they won't go away altogether until the concussion is healed. One more thing. He's to drink nothing but water. No wine, or any other kind of spirits, until I'm satisfied that he's completely well."

"We'll take the best care of him we can," Aramis said.

"I'm certain that you will,"

"Musketeers always look after their brothers," Porthos said.

"I'm well aware of that," the doctor said. "You can take him to the room directly across the hall. There's a cot in there and some chairs. I'll come back later and check on him."

"Come on, D'Artagnan," Porthos said. Putting an arm around him, he escorted him across the hall and sat him down on the cot. Aramis removed his weapons belt, while Porthos removed his boots and lifted his legs up onto the cot.

"Try to rest until we have to wake you up again," Athos told him and D'Artagnan closed his eyes.

Aramis spoke in a low voice. "What are we going to do with him tomorrow? I mean, once he's released from the infirmary, where are we going to take him?"

"Hm," said Porthos. "We need some place where we can keep an eye on him, somewhere that's quiet."

"We can't take him to my place," said Athos, "Who would watch him when we have to stay here at the garrison? I don't see any choice, but for him to stay here at the garrison with us."

"There's nobody locked up in the guardhouse now," said Porthos. "It's quiet. We could take him there."

Athos merely looked at him.

"I know. Bad choice," Porthos said.

"It seems as though the barracks is the _only_ choice," Aramis said. "Half the company is out of Paris on missions, and most of us are in the barracks only to sleep or change clothes, so it won't be crowded and shouldn't be too noisy."

"It's settled then," said Athos.

"I'll break their heads if they get too noisy," threatened Porthos.

Throughout the night, Athos, Aramis and Porthos kept waking D'Artagnan up, ignoring his sleepy protests. Following his release from the infirmary the next day, they settled him into the barracks. The bunk that Athos slept in, while staying at the garrison, was on one side of D'Artagnan, Aramis was on the other side with Porthos next to Aramis.

Shortly after getting D'Artagnan settled, Capt. Treville came in to check on his newest musketeer and found D'Artagnan awake and sitting up in his bunk. "How are you feeling, son," he inquired, putting a hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder. D'Artagnan gazed at him with big, puzzled brown eyes, then looked questioningly at the other men.

"He ain't been talkin' very much," explained Porthos.

"I see," said Treville. "Well, keep a close eye on him and let me know if there's any change." He looked directly at D'Artagnan. "Do whatever Athos, Porthos and Aramis tell you to do. Understand?" He placed a hand atop the boy's head. D'Artagnan gazed back at him, wide-eyed, but said nothing."

Treville turned his attention to Athos. "I'd like a word with you outside." Athos followed him out the door into the courtyard. "I've spoken with the doctor," Treville said. "It's very early yet, but he tells me that D'Artagnan's prognosis is uncertain. I want you to know that should he never be able to resume his normal duties, I will find something for him to do here at the garrison, something simple and easy that he will be capable of handling."

Athos reacted with anger. "Captain! I think I would rather see D'Artagnan dead than to have to lead that kind of life."

Treville looked grim. "I understand how you feel, Athos. It would be a terrible fate for one as young and spirited as D'Artagnan. I am hopeful that the boy will make a full recovery and be his old self again, but you see how he is now. We must be realistic. I only wanted you to understand that, should he never recover completely, he will not be turned out to wander the streets, destitute. He will be taken care of."

Athos took a deep breath. "I know you mean well, Captain, but I refuse to consider that such a future could ever be D'Artagnan's fate. I lost one younger brother. I'll be damned if I'll lose another one." Athos turned and walked back inside to find Aramis sitting beside D'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan looked at Aramis with a bewildered expression. His voice was little more than a whisper when he spoke. "Am I in trouble?"

Aramis was puzzled by the question and glanced over at Porthos and Athos. "What makes you say that?"

D'Artagnan chewed on his lower lip. "The man who was here … it seems like …." He was unable to finish the thought.

"That was Capt. Treville, our commanding officer," Aramis told him.

"And with him, you usually are in trouble," Porthos told D'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan gave Porthos an anxious look.

"Porthos!" Athos's voice carried a warning.

"Well, that is, we're all in trouble with the captain sometimes," floundered Porthos.

"The captain's bark is worse than his bite," Aramis said, in an effort to smooth things over.

"Except when it ain't," muttered Porthos.

"He … I think he reminds me of … of …. " D'Artagnan frowned.

"Who," asked Athos.

D'Artagnan was slow to answer. "My father?"

Athos questioned him. "What do you remember about your father?"

D'Artagnan's reply came so slowly, that they thought he wouldn't answer. "I can't … I don't know."

"Do you still remember my name," Aramis asked him.

"Aramis."

"Do you remember me from before the time we found you in the alley?"

"No."

"Do you remember his name?" Aramis pointed to Athos.

"Athos."

"Do you remember his name?" Aramis gestured to Porthos.

"Porthos."

"Do you remember anything about us before you saw us in the alley?"

"No. Nothing. Why do you keep after me?" D'Artagnan looked miserable. "I can't remember anything before all of you standing around me in the alley. I can't remember. I can't. Stop trying to make me." His hands clenched and they could see how tense he was. His breath began coming in gasps. He was clearly overwrought and his wide eyes darted around nervously as if he wanted to break and run.

Aramis was disgusted with himself. "I helped a lot, didn't I! I pushed him too hard. Now how are we going to get him calmed down?"

Porthos snapped his fingers. "I got an idea."

Like all of the musketeers, D'Artagnan had a small trunk at the foot of his bunk for storing personal belongings. Porthos opened the lid and quickly found what he was looking for among the extra pair of boots, a few shirts and breeches, underwear, blue musketeer cloak and winter blanket. He brought out a hairbrush and walked over to D'Artagnan. "Get up, Aramis," he said, and took the spot Aramis vacated. D'Artagnan gave him a wary look and leaned slightly away from him. "Don't worry," Porthos told him. "I'm only going to get the tangles out of your hair and I'll try not to pull." He began brushing D'Artagnan's hair with slow, careful strokes. Despite the expectations of the three men, D'Artagnan meekly submitted to the process. The big musketeer encountered a stubborn tangle and the boy flinched. Porthos put down the brush and unraveled the tangle by hand, his large fingers uncharacteristically gentle. He picked the brush back up and resumed, carefully unraveling the worst snarls with his fingers, and all of them saw D'Artagnan's tenseness begin to subside. Porthos continued with the calming effect of the hair brushing beyond what was necessary, even amusing himself by brushing the boy's long bangs down over his forehead because he knew that the bangs irritated Treville. When he finished, D'Artagnan's hair was neat and shining. Porthos put down the hairbrush. "Now you look pretty again," he told him with a grin. D'Artagnan gave him an uncomprehending look and Porthos squeezed his shoulder.

Porthos looked up at Aramis's unruly mop of hair. "You could use a hair brushin' yourself, but I ain't volunteerin' to do it."

"A pair of scissors wouldn't go amiss, either," added Athos.

"Neither one of you is getting near my hair," Aramis said, running his fingers through the untidy mop.

D'Artagnan rubbed his head, briefly closing his eyes. "Your head bothering you," Aramis asked him. Mutely, D'Artagnan nodded. "I'm sorry we can't give you anything for it," he added.

"He looks tired," Athos said. "Too many people to deal with, perhaps."

A group of musketeers entered the barracks and looked curiously at D'Artagnan. One of them stopped by D'Artagnan's bunk. "We heard D'Artagnan's lost his memory. Is that true?"

Athos answered. "It's true, but we're hoping that it's only temporary." His tone became commanding. "Guidry, I want you and the rest of the men to keep the noise down in here. D'Artagnan needs peace and quiet."

"Sure. I'll tell the others. We all like D'Artagnan, except for a few who're jealous and think that Treville favors him." He smiled knowingly. "And it's not like we aren't aware of how you and Porthos and Aramis treat him like he's your little brother. Nobody's going to bother him."

Athos nodded and turned his attention back to D'Artagnan. "Get some rest. We won't be far away and we'll get you something to eat later."

D'Artagnan lay back and closed his eyes. He felt totally lost in a confusing world that made little sense. He couldn't remember anything of his past and everything in his present was unfamiliar. He could recall nothing about the men named Athos, Porthos and Aramis. He realized that they cared about him, but he didn't know why they should care. They represented safety and security in a way that he couldn't explain to himself. All he knew was that he needed them and wanted them with him.

The following day, when the barracks had emptied, the three older musketeers tried once again to jog D'Artagnan's memory. "Do you remember anything about us yet," Athos asked him.

D'Artagnan spoke softly. "No."

"Do you remember anything about Capt. Treville?"

D'Artagnan looked apprehensive. "No."

"What about Madame-"

"May be best not to go there," Porthos broke in.

"You're probably right," Athos conceded.

"Do you remember coming to Paris," Aramis asked.

"No. No, I can't remember any of this. You want me to remember, but I can't. I just can't. Why do you keep trying to make me? Stop! Please stop!" D'Artagnan was getting upset and his face showed his unhappiness.

Porthos, sitting beside D'Artagnan, pushed the boy's hair out of his eyes. "Hey, how about I brush your hair again? Is it all right with you if I do that?"

D'Artagnan thought about it before finally nodding.

"I could brush his hair," Aramis volunteered without noticeable enthusiasm.

D'Artagnan's response was immediate. "No." He looked down at the floor.

"How about Athos then?"

Athos looked at Aramis as if he thought Aramis had lost his mind.

"No." D'Artagnan glanced up at the two of them and then gave Porthos a look of mute appeal. "Porthos."

Porthos got the hair brush and began brushing D'Artagnan's hair. Athos regarded them with amusement. "He only wants you, Porthos,"

"I believe that Porthos has found a new calling," Aramis said.

Porthos paused to give both men an intimidating stare. "If any word of this gets out in the company, I'm gonna come lookin' for a certain two musketeers and when I find 'em …."

Aramis held up his hands in surrender. "My lips are sealed."

"And mine," said Athos, still looking amused.

The next day, the three men made another attempt to nudge D'Artagnan's memory. Athos sat down on the bunk opposite D'Artagnan. "We don't want to badger you or get you upset, D'Artagnan, but we have to do everything we can to try to help you get your memory back. Do you understand?"

D'Artagnan nodded, but didn't look happy at the prospect of more questioning."

"Do you still not remember anything about us yet – Porthos, Aramis and me?"

He shook his head. "No. Only … only …."

"Only what?"

"Horses." Hazy images flickered through his mind and he spoke slowly. "Horses … riding horses together somewhere. I can't remember where it was."

"That's something, at least," Aramis said. "Anything else?"

He didn't answer right away. "Swordfights, I think." He struggled to remember, but the details were too muddled. "I'm trying to remember more about it, but I can't. I can't." He put a hand to his head. "My head hurts really bad. Trying to remember too much makes my head hurt."

"That's enough for today then," Athos said. "We're beginning to make some progress, but we don't want to make your headache worse by continuing for now. Try to sleep for awhile if you can, and we'll be back later."

Despite the pain in his head, D'Artagnan did manage to drift off to sleep once the older musketeers had left. When he awoke, it was with no sense of how long he had slept. He looked around, discovering that he was alone. A feeling of panic set in and he found it hard to breathe. Where were the men he depended upon – the ones who always seemed to be with him? He sat up and saw a pair of boots underneath his bunk. He put them on, went to the door and opened it. He scanned the courtyard, finding a few musketeers gathered in one corner, talking and laughing together, but they were not the ones he knew. He would have even welcomed the sight of the older man who commanded the garrison, but he didn't see him either and didn't know where to look for him. He had to find them - Athos, Aramis and Porthos. His head was aching again, but the gate to the garrison stood open. He went across the courtyard and through the gate and began his search along the streets.

The three older musketeers entered the barracks and stopped short upon seeing D'Artagnan's unoccupied bunk. "He's gone," exclaimed Porthos in a tone of disbelief. He glanced underneath the bunk. "His boots are missin', too."

Aramis's dark eyes reflected his dismay. "I was certain he would still be asleep. "We didn't leave him for very long."

"Apparently, it was _too_ long," Athos said. "Let's search the compound. Perhaps, someone has seen him."

Their search yielded nothing and no one had noticed D'Artagnan outside of the barracks. "He's somewhere out there," Athos said, looking grim, "And he's in no condition to be out on his own."

"Where do you want to look for him," asked Porthos.

"We'll spread out in different directions," Athos said, as they headed for the gate. "He may not have gotten too far. We'll meet back here at the garrison."

D'Artagnan roamed the streets, looking for, but not finding, the musketeers he sought. He dodged hurrying people, riders on horseback and livestock running loose in the narrow streets. No place looked familiar and neither did anyone he came across. His journey took him into a rundown neighborhood. From the taverns came raucous laughter and occasional shouts and curses. Drunks sprawled in alleys and doorways, their empty bottles beside them and a large rat scurried about fearlessly. The odors of liquor, urine, and the rotting carcasses of dead animals in the gutters formed a noxious mixture and he covered his nose with his hand.

In his mind suddenly appeared a fuzzy image of rolling hills, clear streams, cows, horses and sheep grazing on green grass, plowed fields and sunflowers blooming. He had been in such a place before. He was sure of it, but what was he doing here? He couldn't make sense of it. He looked around him, desperately wanting to get out and turned to re-trace his steps. He nearly bumped into a woman in a low-cut, gaudy dress that was no longer very clean. She gave him a speculative glance. Her heavily painted face failed to disguise the unhealthy pallor of her skin and her red hair was of an unnatural hue. The red hair reminded him of something. He couldn't place what it was, but something that had an unhappy association.

"Bon jour," the woman said, smiling at him and putting a detaining hand on his arm. "You look like you could use some company, that is, if you have money. Do you have money?"

He shook his head, too confused to understand what she was talking about.

"Are you certain," she persisted. "Tell me what you like and we may be able to work something out."

He pushed past her, intent on finding his way back. With a shrug, the woman turned her attention to other potential customers. Making an effort to re-trace his steps, he stopped in front of a tavern, trying to remember if he had ever been there, but it was hard to think with his head pounding the way it was. Five men in uniform came out of the tavern. He couldn't identify their uniforms, knowing only that they weren't musketeers. "Well, if it isn't little D'Artagnan," one of them said, coming closer until he was in the boy's face. "Could be you didn't get enough of us the last time, but we can fix that."

D'Artagnan shrank back, realizing that they threatened him, but not understanding why. A couple of them grabbed him and roughly shoved him into an alley running alongside the tavern. The men surrounded him and they forced him up against a wall.

One of them gave him a contemptuous slap. "Come on, don't you want to fight us? You fought Labarge. Surely, you aren't afraid to fight us." He was slapped again, harder this time. "Come on! Are you a coward? Put up a fight!"

"No," D'Artagnan mumbled, confused and afraid.

"There's something wrong with him," one of the men said, "And he's not even wearing a weapon."

"Or a pauldron," another one added.

The one who had slapped him stepped back, not certain what to make of the situation.

"D'Artagnan!"

They turned to see Athos standing in the entrance to the alley.

"Shit! It's Athos," one of them said.

Athos drew his sword and advanced on them. "Get away from him!"

"We were just having a little fun," one man smirked. "No harm done."

Athos's expression was deadly. "Get the hell out of here. Now!"

The one who had spoken gave Athos a sneering grin, but started to leave, followed by the others.

D'Artagnan slid down the wall and sat on the ground. Athos put away his sword and went over to him.

D'Artagnan looked up at him, bewildered. "One of them hit me," he mumbled. "I don't know why. I didn't do anything."

Athos spoke gently. "No, you didn't. None of this is your fault. The man who hit you is a Red Guard. I know you don't remember about the Red Guards, but some of them like to fight and cause trouble." He paused and knelt beside the boy. "What are you doing here? Why did you leave the garrison?"

"I couldn't find you," D'Artagnan whispered. "I couldn't find anybody, not you, or … or …."

"Aramis and Porthos?"

"Aramis and Porthos," he repeated. After a moment's hesitation, he said, "I was … afraid because I can't remember things and I was all alone. I didn't know where to find you" He looked at Athos with sad eyes. "I keep trying and trying to remember, no matter how much it makes my head hurt, but I can't. I can't." He began to cry, the sobs becoming uncontrollable and shaking his body. He reached out blindly for Athos, grabbing his lapels with both hands and burying his face against him. Knowing how much strain that the boy had been under and how much he needed release, Athos silently held him, slowly rubbing a comforting hand up and down his back and allowing him to cry himself out. Eventually, the sobs subsided into a hiccup and he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "I want to go back," he told Athos.

"I'll take you back." Athos helped him up. "After we catch up with Aramis and Porthos, we'll go and get something to eat. Are you hungry?"

"Maybe ... a little."

"You need food in your stomach. You're too scrawny as it is."

D'Artagnan wiped his eyes again. "Why is it bad to be scrawny?"

The boy's innocent expression made Athos smile and he couldn't resist pulling him into a brief hug. "It's not bad exactly, but it's a disadvantage." He put his hand on D'Artagnan's back and ushered him out of the alley. "Let's go find Aramis and Porthos."

After D'Artagnan's escapade of the day, the three older musketeers had thought he would be tired enough to sleep soundly through the night, but such was not to be. A violent, summer thunderstorm broke, with lightning illuminating the night sky, accompanied by loud booms of thunder. The noise disturbed D'Artagnan, but failed to wake him. He twitched and began to talk in his sleep, "No! No! Don't!"

Aramis and Athos got up to see about him, one on either side of his bunk. Aramis grasped him by the shoulder. "D'Artagnan! Wake up! Wake up!" Porthos padded over in his bare feet and lit a candle from a nearby stand.

Guidry, who was awake, came over to join them. "What's the matter with him?"

Porthos brought the candle closer to provide better light. "Bad dream."

Another musketeer, one with a disgruntled expression, also came over. "It's bad enough trying to sleep with a storm going on. We got to be kept awake by him having nightmares, too?"

Guidry tried to placate the grumpy musketeer. "It's not like he can help it, Malveaux."

Porthos advanced on the complaining musketeer. "Shut up about him, or I'll give you a nightmare of your own."

Malveaux started to make a retort, thought better of it, and returned to his bunk.

D'Artagnan sat up, his brown eyes wide with fear. He trembled and breathed heavily. "The noise," he gasped. "It sounds like … like … something I …." His voice trailed off.

"It's only thunder," Athos assured him. "It's nothing to worry about. There's a storm passing through. That's all."

"I think he may be remembering what happened in the tunnels," Aramis suggested.

"The explosion from the gunpowder," Porthos said. "He's remembering things a little now and the thunder sounded like the explosion."

"Explosion?" D'Artagnan looked puzzled.

"Never mind that now," Athos told him. "It's not important."

"That's something he doesn't need to remember just yet," said Aramis. "Talking about it is only going to get him disturbed again."

"When he stops being bothered so much by headaches," Athos said, "We can take him around to some familiar places that may help to jog his memory, but we'll stay away from the tunnels."

"We could even let him try sparrin' with us when he's feelin' up to it," suggested Porthos.

"I think that kind of activity is quite a ways off," said Aramis, "But when he's ready, we'll try it."

"I'll be interested to find out if he can remember the moves," Athos added.

Another loud crash of thunder interrupted them and D'Artagnan jerked in reaction, his breath catching. Aramis sat down beside him and rubbed his back reassuringly. "It's nothing but thunder. The storm should be over soon."

The thunderstorm had dropped the temperature and D'Artagnan shivered. Like the other musketeers in the barracks, he was shirtless and wore only his underpants. "Lie down and go back to sleep," Athos said. Aramis got up and Athos pulled the sheet up higher. "The storm can't bother you," he reminded D'Artagnan, "And we'll be here to wake you up if you have a bad dream again."

It was more than one week later before D'Artagnan felt well enough for the three older musketeers to take him to re-visit some familiar locations. Disjointed fragments of his memory had begun to return, but huge gaps remained. He had started to remember bits and pieces about Athos, Aramis, Porthos, Treville and some of the other musketeers. Most worrying to him, though, was that he could remember nothing about his life before coming to Paris, other than a hazy image of Gascony.

The four musketeers stood outside of the king and queen's residence. "Do you remember being here before," Aramis asked him.

D'Artagnan thought hard. "Parties? Parties here?"

"This is the palace of the king and queen," Athos told him. "Do you remember their names?"

He bit his lip in concentration. "No … but the king has long, black curly hair, doesn't he?"

Porthos snorted. "Hair like that would be hard to forget. You're makin' progress, D'Artagnan.

They went to the Bonacieux house and D'Artagnan stood in the street, looking up at it for a long time.

"Do you remember who lives here," Aramis asked him.

"D'Artagnan's lips tightened. "I don't know if I want to remember. Can't we go someplace else?"

The other three men exchanged knowing looks. "Of course," said Athos. "We'll re-visit the place where you won your commission."

The area where D'Artagnan had fought to win his commission was empty, all the former trappings having been removed, but the others hoped that the place would still bring back memories. "What do you recall about the day you were here," Athos asked him.

D'Artagnan closed his eyes, trying his best to remember. "There were people here watching and there was a big, heavy man. His name was … was Labarge," he finished triumphantly, then frowned. "Labarge did something. He … he injured Captain Treville, but there was something else, something he did." He paused. "I can't seem to think what it was, but it was something bad."

Not wanting to bring up Labarge destroying D'Artagnan's family farm, even if D'Artagnan wasn't yet able to remember the farm, Athos tried to move him in a different direction. "You had a swordfight with Labarge. Do you remember that?"

D'Artagnan spoke slowly. "He was really big and heavy, and so strong."

"He would make two of you," Porthos put in.

"But I beat him, didn't I?" He looked to them for confirmation. "I won that day."

Aramis smiled at him. "Yes, you did. We were all very proud of you and happy that you had officially become one of us."

"I remember that." D'Artagnan's brown eyes no longer looked dazed, but had regained much of their former sparkle and liveliness. "I remember Athos putting the pauldron on me." He looked down at his sleeve. "Where is it?"

"It's in safekeeping in Treville's office," Athos said. "We didn't want you to lose it. Your weapons belt and your weapons are there, as well. You've been in no condition to have weapons. When you're ready for them, you can have them back."

"Things are starting to come back to me. Everyday, I remember more, but there are still things that I try to remember, but I just can't."

Aramis put a hand on his shoulder. "You will remember. You're coming along fine. You have to give yourself more time."

D'Artagnan glanced at Athos. "When can I start sparring again?"

Aramis answered him instead. "Not so fast. Even though they're less severe, you're still having headaches fairly often."

"Aramis is right," Athos said. "Sparring is strenuous, too strenuous for you until I can see that you're well enough."

Although D'Artagnan chaffed at the delay, Athos made him wait for two more weeks before he allowed him to start sparring again. "I'm going to take it slow and easy with you," Athos told him before their first session. "You're going to be rusty from the lack of practice."

D'Artagnan's rustiness showed and he knew it, missing moves, and having Athos easily defeat him without much effort. They practiced each day and D'Artagnan showed gradual improvement, though Athos still had no real difficulty in beating him. They were nearing the end of their third week of sparring matches, when Athos once again defeated the young musketeer. "That's enough for today," Athos said, when the match ended. "You need more practice. We'll try again tomorrow."

D'Artagnan didn't argue. He knew that he hadn't done particularly well. He went over to the table where Aramis and Porthos had perched to watch and reached for a cup of water. "I wasn't very good, was I," he said to them.

"You have been better," Aramis commented.

"Do you think I'll ever be as good as Athos?"

"Someday perhaps," Aramis replied

Porthos stroked his chin. "Only when you can put Athos on his ass as often as he puts you on yours."

D'Artagnan's smile was rueful. "That certainly hasn't happened yet."

That evening, the four musketeers went to their favorite tavern for a meal. Afterwards, Porthos joined a card game, while Athos ordered a bottle of wine to be brought to their table. Athos poured the wine only for himself and Aramis. D'Artagnan started to reach for the bottle, but Aramis moved it away from him. "No wine for you yet. The doctor hasn't given his approval. You'll have to drink water instead."

D'Artagnan started to protest. "But I don't see why this once, I can't-"

A look from Athos from under his hat brim silenced the protest.

With poor grace, D'Artagnan settled for water. Sulking a little, he watched Porthos, while Athos and Aramis talked among themselves. Porthos chortled with glee as he raked in his winnings. A memory flashed through D'Artagnan's head. "Porthos," he murmured to himself.

Aramis turned to him. "What?"

"Porthos. Porthos cheats at cards. I remember now." His voice rose. "Porthos cheats at cards."

A man seated at the next table glanced suspiciously at Porthos and looked back at D'Artagnan.

Aramis sought to head off trouble. "Pay no attention," he told the man. "He thinks everyone cheats at cards. He's strange that way. We can hardly take him anywhere."

"I remember," D'Artagnan said excitedly. "I'm beginning to remember ... remember lots of things. Everything! It's starting to come back to me now."

Aramis got up, went over to Porthos and tapped him on the shoulder. "Collect your winnings and come back to our table. D'Artagnan says he's getting his memory back. All of it, it appears." Porthos gathered up his winnings, came back and sat down with the other musketeers.

D'Artagnan was still excited. "I'm remembering it all." Abruptly, his expression turned somber. "I remember that my father is dead, and I remember that Labarge destroyed our farm." He paused, haunted by the memories, and then went on. "The land has been in my family for generations. My great-great grandfather built the house I grew up in. Now it's all gone, including something special that my father made for me."

"What was that," Aramis asked.

"When I was little, I liked to play with some other boys at being musketeers. We used sticks and pretended they were swords. My father knew how much I liked pretending to be a musketeer and he made me a wooden sword with a blunt tip. I wanted to keep it always. It was in my room in the house, but it's gone along with everything else - the barn, the orchards. We had orchards with apple trees and peach trees and grape vines. Labarge burned down the orchards, too, along with the wheat fields."

"Must have been a lot of work to do on that farm of yours," Porthos commented.

"There was, but my father had tenants who performed most of the labor. I was supposed to work, too, but most of the time I was out in the forest playing and exploring. I would beg my father to let me go play when I should have been picking apples or something. Usually, I could get him to let me."

"Your father was more indulgent than mine," said Aramis. "You sound a little spoiled, in fact."

"I wasn't spoiled," D'Artagnan said indignantly. He wasn't going to tell them that their Lupiac neighbors had voiced their opinion that Alexandre D'Artagnan was too lenient with his high-spirited son. Practicing much sterner methods of discipline on their own offspring, they disapproved of how seldom the senior D'Artagnan applied a punishing hand to his boy's butt.

"You was probably a brat," Porthos said with a grin.

"I wasn't a brat!"

"You must've been a brat, 'cause you still act like one sometimes. Yeah, you're definitely a brat," Porthos jibed, seeing that he was getting under D'Artagnan's skin.

"I agree. He is a brat," Aramis added.

"Athos! Can't you stop them from calling me that," D'Artagnan demanded.

"How can I make them stop," Athos calmly replied. "Besides, they're right. You can be a brat."

"I should've known you would side with them," D'Artagnan muttered, sensing no end to being the target of relentless teasing. He grew somber once again. "I wish I hadn't remembered about when my father died. He was the best father there could ever be and it's hard to accept that I don't have him any longer."

"Not that we could ever replace your father," said Aramis, "But you do have us."

D'Artagnan managed a smile. "I know. You're all I have now, you and Athos and Porthos, even Treville." Seeing that there was still wine in the bottle, he reached for it. Athos gave him another look from underneath his hat brim.

D'Artagnan responded with a petulant look. "What is it? Why can't I have a drink now that my memory has come back?"

"Aren't you still having headaches?"

"Yes, sometimes, but-"

"Then don't even think about it."

D'Artagnan scowled at Athos. Big brothers could be as much of a pain as a headache. He muttered under his breath. "Damn you, Athos."

Athos raised an eyebrow at him. "What did you say?"

D'Artagnan lowered his gaze. "Nothing."

That's what I thought." Athos raised his cup of wine. "Let's drink to having our normal D'Artagnan back again - brash, impulsive and reckless he may be, but he's still our very own brat and we wouldn't trade him for anyone else."

Athos, Aramis and Porthos raised their cups of wine and clinked them together. With a reluctant smile tugging at his lips, D'Artagnan lifted his cup of water and clinked it with theirs.

End


End file.
